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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



MEMORIAL ODE 

AND OTHER POEMS 

ALPHONSO G. NEWCOMER 



THE BOOKSTORE 

STANFORD UNIVERSITY 

1913 






Copyright, 19 13 
by 

Mrs. C. M. Newcomer 



€:i.A36l381 



:^ 



Alphonso Gerald Newcomer 

Mount Morris, Illinois 
September 13, 1864 

Stanford University, California 
September 16, 1913 



CONTENTS 


< 

PAGE 

7 


Memorial Ode 


To Mrs. Jane Lathrop Stanford 






17 


Stanford Memorial Church 






18 


Jane Lathrop Stanford 








22 


The Old and the New 










23 


Plato Passes 










27 


Winter in Santa Clara Valley 










33 


Cui Bono 










34 


Beyond the Pale 










40 


Counterpoise .... 










43 


Palingenesis 










44 


Pantheism 










SO 


Questing .... 










51 


Bacchanalia 










52 


Loss or Gain 










55 


Mutability 










57 


Ballade of Light Loves 










60 


Rondeau .... 










62 


Aubade .... 










63 


"The Dews Lie Thick" . 










66 


"Sit Closer, Sweet" 










68 


Eerie Time 










70 


"The Builders Builded" . 










72 


At Sea 










76 


Gibraltar ... 










76 


Capri .... 










78 


Sorrento .... 










79 


Albergo Santa Caterina 










80 



PAGE 

Canto Dell'Amore 8i 

Ave Maria 82 

Petrarca: In Morte, LII . . . * . . 83 

LIII 84 

LIV 85 

From the Japanese 88 



MEMORIAL ODE 
(Read at the Founder's Day exercises, March Qth, 1894.) 

NO LIFE is lost, one says ; no man's work dies 
Utterly ; none that looks upon the skies 
But leaves some record as secure as they 

From death and death's decay. 
Lo, this is fate. Put forth thy strong hand 

where 
Men labor in Time's garden-plot to-day, 
Eternity shall find the impress there. 

And haply this may be. 
But one says, Nay, there is naught that abides. 
Time is a wide unfathomable sea 

'Neath whose recurrent tides 
Are swallowed up all things implacably. 
This rock-built earth whereof man makes his 
home 

Is less than the sea's foam ; 
The galaxies of stars that seem to him 
Perdurable as time, like bubbles swim 
Upon its surface and like them will burst ; 
Yea, time itself that swallows up all these 
Must yield in turn, the last lost as the first, — 

Must sink whence it arose, 

Flow backward whence it flows. 
Into eternity's soundless shoreless seas. 

[7] 



What may be true? Is life less full or fair. 
Does deeper darkness gather o'er men's eyes 
Than when our fathers importuned the skies 

For light withholden there? 
The sun shines warm to-day as yesterday, 
The green grass fails not when the rains return, 
And ivy twines about the burial urn, 
And summer winds through leafless branches 

play. 
Hearken, by day, by night, and thou mayst hear 
Ascending ever one unchanging tune. 
The voice of all earth's choristers a-croon, 

The world-song low and clear. 
No age hath listened for this song in vain ; 
Though one voice dies another swells the strain, 
And Homer calls and Shakspere answers Here! 
And loss is balanced by unfailing gain. 

Yet there is loss. The splendid perfumed rose 
That blooms to-day within thy garden-close — 
Ah, like it is but is not yet the flower 
Thou wovest once in one fair maiden's hair 
To shed its perfume and its splendor there 

And crown love's supreme hour. 
And though this rose as that be fair and sweet, 
Yea, though all rose-delights in this rose meet, 
Too well, too well thou knowest it hath no power 
Save in a mocking vision to recall 

Youth's vanished festival. 
Ay, there is loss. Though rose return for rose. 

Somewhither each one goes 

[8] 



Nor comes again in its own form and hue ; 
And love that springs from dead love's tirned 
repose 

Makes not the old joy new. 
Ah for this transitory human life, 
Where at the last all strivers cease from strife 
And over them and theirs is cast the spell 

Of death's Irrevocable! 
Where unto them that have so nobly striven 
For heaven's best boon, behold what boon is 

given : 
A little time of hopes and joys and fears, 
A little sound of music in their ears, 
A little light upon their eyes and then 

Darkness again. 
Prayer shall avail not to avert this doom ; 
For man and all that man's hand fashioneth 
Shall find within the wide domain of death 

An unremembered tomb. 

But hold ! The eyes of men 
Made keen with penetrating through the veil 
Behind which matter hides it from our ken, 
Have found, past all doubt's mockery to assail, 
An immortality within the clod, 
An essence that shall live unchallenged on 
Though the live light of sunlit heaven should 

fail 
And earth wait vainly for one darkling dawn, — 

Perchance incarnate God. 

[9] 



Pent in the silent caverns of the earth, 
Scarce stirred since the world's birth, 

Or brought where the rains nourish, the sun 
warms, 

To gather vigor of the sun and rains 

And pass through thousand Protean forms 

Of blade and blossom, stone and beast and tree 
And man's supremacy. 

Through change unchanged this essence still 
remains. 

The essence ? Are the forms abolished then ? 

Not so ; these too abide, 

As in the ocean's tide 
Abides forever the high curling crest 

Though filled with all unrest 
And molding crestwise ever and again 
New waters gathered in its wanderings wide 

Upon the ocean's breast. 

Nay, not the clod alone, 
The gross dense matter whereof worlds are 

made. 
Hath life beyond this life of light and shade — 
The form it clothes is deathless as God's own 

And was not born to fade. 
What hand so cunning can destroy one line 

Of God's deep-wrought design? 
Shatter the dew-drop globed upon the grass — 

The fragile globule flies 

To thousand atomies. 
Yet each retains the outline of the mass 

And sphered perfection lies. 

[10] 



Or loose a feathered arrow from its place — 
Thy straightening bow forgets its bended grace ; 

But upward turn thine eye 

And mark against the sky 
Thy flying shaft the bow of beauty trace. 
The fair proportions of the Parthenon 

Untouched by time live on. 
The Coliseum's springing arches spread 

Above thy reverent head. 
What though worlds perish ? Other worlds shall 

sweep 
Their paths appointed and their contours keep. 
What though men die? Espied or unespied, 

Somewhere their forms abide. 
For though thou tread from us where death 

unbars 
The way, withdrawing thy dear face, and though 
We moan Not here! Not here! somewhere we 

know 
In lines of light outstreaming past the stars 

Thy living lineaments glow. 

Death is but dissolution of life's bond. 

For soul and body strive a little space 

To run together in the equal race, 

Until one calls and one does not respond 
And death bids both give place. 

Body and soul go thenceforth each his way. — 

Fair Helen was but is no more, we say; 

And yet we know that somewhere Helen's dust 
Sleeps in the silent earth, 
Or wakes to flower-bright birth, 

Or panders still to man's insatiate lust. 

[II] 



And Helen's beauty, like a bale-fire set 

On Skaian-portal, holds us spell-bound yet. — 

Beneath the pavement of Ravenna lies 

All that remains of him whose bitter fare 

Of alien bread sustained him to endure 

The apocalypse that blasts our weaker eyes. 

The human soul laid bare. 
All that remains? Nay, Giotto's penciled truth 
Hath given over to immortal youth, 
Unmarred by grief's and exile's signature. 

Fresh with life's morning-kiss, 
The clear grave face that looked on Beatrice. 
And so he Hves, dissevered soul and sense. 
Yet such dividual life were naught, 

But that each poet's dower 

Gives him creative power 
To eke out nature's poor incompetence 

And justify his hour. 
For his transcendent vision recombines, 

Refining still away 
What imperfections marked them for decay, 
The crumbling earth and fleshless pictured lines 

Of Giotto's cunning. Yea, 
Divining half from what the live hands wrought 

With impress large and strong. 
And half from what the living accents taught, 

He pieces out the whole — 

Conjecturing the soul 
From the soul's deeds, the singer from the 

song — 
Till recreate, life's laurel round his head, 
Lo Dante's self, immortal, perfected. 

[12] 



A poet's dream? Ay, so. 

Yet who shall say or know 

But to such supreme ends 

All nature's travail tends? 
Matter in countless forms we see, 
Forms clothed in matter endlessly ; 

Each combination lives 

What life its union gives 
And dies because its bonds imperfect be. 
Is it too strong a vision for men's eyes. 

That struggle yet with tears, 
To see, beyond their day of doubts and fears, 
On some far highland of the future rise 
The crowning warrant of these laboring years? 

For such will rise, be sure — 

A creature fair and pure, 

A creature brave and bright. 

Mighty with God's own might, 

Made perfect to endure; 
Wherein are met in marriage strong and sweet, 

That ever strive to meet. 
Body and soul, each for the other made. 

Each glad and unafraid, 
Merged in one essence final and complete, 
Self-centred, fed with free and painless breath 
And clear of time and ignorant of death. 



[13] 



Upon the new world's westward seaward slope, 
Where eager eyes catch color from the dawn 
And flash back radiance of half-risen hope, 
Where life may drink at founts still unwith- 

drawn 
And breathe with respiration large and free, 
A marvel springs to meet the morning. See, 
Between the great sea's utmost inland surge 
And rising hills that shelter from the sea. 
In a glad land whose seasons melt and merge 
One into one and bring all wondrous things 
That sad lands wrest but from reluctant springs, 
All flower and fruitage of earth's largess, stands 
This latest wonder, as divine as they. 
Albeit the fabric of weak human hands, 
Clay shaped by kindred clay. 

The hills deny it not: dull red and gold 
Against their vivid verdure and the blue 
Of farther mountains rising fold on fold 
Enrobed in haze of heaven's diviner hue; 
The valley takes, as one that takes his own, 
These stately splendid simple walls of stone. 
Broad for the sunlight's blessing, low to keep 
Close fellowship with earth's great heart alone: 
Mute majesty of guardian towers, and sweep 
Of arcades gleaming afar in pillared pride. 
And beauty of binding arches multiplied. 
Oh fair, surpassing fair, however viewed ! 
We marvel that the very stones disclose 
The spirit of their builder's amplitude 
And manhood's deep repose. 

[14] 



Ah, there is something here 
More than these outlines clear — 
Within this body some warm breath, 
Some life within this stony death. 
For faith and hope have builded here their shrine 

And wait here for a sign 
That on some far horizon must appear : — 
Hope that some watcher shall descry the goal 
Of all this cosmic travail, faith profound 
That knowledge does not tread one ceaseless 

round 
But climbs from star to star and pole to pole. 

Mark then what threescore years and ten may 

do. 
For threescore years and ten ago was born 
The child that into such large manhood grew 
As noon gets seldom promise of the morn. 
Ah that such manhood should be lost and leave 
Bowed hearts of men and women here to grieve 
Where most he wrought. Yet here is balm ; 

for lo, 
This same strong manhood taught us how to 

weave 
Joy of bereavement's very woof of woe. 
Putting our manhood to the proof of tears 
Wherethrough hope's rainbow shines across the 

years. 
O mighty soul that trampled sorrow down, 
Triumphant where the fallen are thickliest 

strewed, 
Receive this greater than a laurel crown, 
Man's deathless gratitude. 
[15] 



To-day we stand where thou canst stand no more 
As once thou stoodest, stand and sadly gaze 
On all this relic of thee, till before 
Our grief finds words the grief is turned to 

praise. 
Ah sore-tried heart that in its sorrow turned 
To one that with its own heart's-anguish burned. 
And gathered strength to quench the sorrow's 

fire; 
Ah hands that faltered not when heart's love 

yearned 
For some memorial of its dead desire ; — 
How are men taught that death is not so strong 
But love may rescue something from his wrong f 
And thou, whose heart and hands so labored 

here, 
From whose dead hope a thousand living spring, 
What song but song of praise should reach thine 

ear 
As love's high offering? 

Here, by thy steadfast creed 
That reach of human deed 
Is bounded but by God's immense, 
Immensurable beneficence, 
And by this stone memorial of thy trust 

That man is more than dust. 
We consecrate us to the work of need. 
Here let us add our little to thy large. 
Till mortal clay, molded to perfect form 
And with the breath of God's own life made 

warm, 
Shall stand, godlike and fair, on heaven's bright 
marge. 

[i6] 



TO MRS. JANE LATHROP STANFORD 

On her seventieth birthday, accompanying a Cop- 
ley print of Abbott Thayer's Caritas presented by 
President Jordan and others. 



TO You^ beneath life's reddening sunset ray, 
Seeing what visions with reverted eyes ! — 
Hope, joy, and anguish, boundless sacrifice, 
And faith triumphant on the Dolorous Way; 
To you, in sign of all words cannot say, 

Thankful at least to know your sorrow lies 
Safe locked now with the dead years' sanc- 
tities, 
This friendly token let us bring to-day. 

For us, still sorrow that your years creep on ; 

For you, but gladness. The world's claim 
is quit — 

Fulfilled, and nobly. Happy, who can sit 
At eventide and look back to the dawn 
Saying, Not empty has the day ivithdrawn. 

Wait for the sunset; peace comes after it. 

August 22, 1898. 



[17] 



STANFORD MEMORIAL CHURCH 

TEN years ago we saw it lie 
Fair in the ward of hills and sky 
As some gold bar of sunlight thrown 
Across the valley's emerald zone, 
Yet knew not all the dream he dreamed, 
The master, on whose fancy gleamed 
That day a vision of walls and towers 
Fair beyond any dream of ours. 

The master passed. But dreams abide 

To work their will on dreamless clay; 
And lo, around us here to-day, 

In form and feature glorified. 

The clay to noble service passed, — 

His dream, her dream, sure deed at last. 

For Build, he said, and Build, said she, 
Build strong and fair, build fair and free, 
Until the uneasy heart shall see 

We build not here for earth alone; 

And though we shape the senseless stone, 
Shapen, it shall a symbol be 

Of things to sense itself unknown. 
Knowledge is good, fair is Truth's face. 
Nor shall they want their dwelling-place, 

[i8] 



With servants to keep wide the door 
And swept the chambers. Yet, oh more, 
Immeasurably more than these 
Are Heaven's inscrutable mysteries 
Whereof the earth-born craves a sign. 
Build then for them a fairer shrine. 

Once, twice, the word was sealed with tears. 
Oh mystery of human power. 
Transmuting still its darkest hour 

Into a light that down the years 

Sheds utter radiance. From their deep. 

Unsunned, undated quarry-sleep, 

By love's Orphean music drawn. 

These stones have taken beauty on ; 

And beauty, born of the heart's cry. 

Is the last thing the world lets die. 

Knowledge is good, truth's face is fair, 

Yet love, well taught of hope and faith 
To look beyond earth's fairest wraith, 

Still turns a wistful countenance where 

Abide, all beauty of truth above, 

Immortal loveliness and love. 

Up then, ye walls of stone, that climb 

Unto this ministry sublime, — 

From pictured apse and pillared nave. 

Past organ-loft and architrave. 

Roof, gallery, turret, spring and slope 

Of dome and spire toward heaven's cope, 

And there, in all men's sight, uphold 

The witness of your cross of gold 

[19] 



That Knowledge sliall not win so high 
But I''aith and Mope still star the sky. 

Ah. splendor of visions yet beheld 
Of men as in the long ago 
When Phidias, Michelangelo. 
Tiieir bronze and marble credos spelled. 
And Time, that puts no stain upon 
Saint Peter's and the Parthenon. 
This humbler fane, doubt not, shall take 
And clothe with honor for their sake 
Who built it, shrine and dome, to be 
A message and a memory, — 
Sundawn ami sunset, night and noon. 
Through all the seasons' changing tune. 
Until how many hundred years 
Swell the long tale of smiles and tears. 
Abiding still to show what gleams 
Of glory crossed our darkling dreams. 

Still, as adown Time's crowded aisle 

The eager generations file. 

Shall fair young lives of man and maid 

Still flit, like swallows, out and in 

The shadows of these towers and win 
Strength of their strength, and unafraid 

Go forth into the outer din. 
Yea, and perchance at the strife's end, 

When they are weary of the strife 
And strength is no more left to tend 

Upo!i the flagging pulse of life. 

120 I 



O'er eyes tluiL in far lands j^row faiiil, 
On ears that listen for a knell, 

Shall steal a priory of hla/coned saint* 
And fall a note of chiniinj^- bell, 

And they shall dream of calm that (ills 

A vale by I'alo Alto's hills, 

And watch once more the twilip^ht llec 

O'er mountains by the i'eacefiil Sea. 

Fcl)ruary, 1902. 



[21 



JANE LATHROP STANFORD 

Died at Honolulu, February 28, 1905. 

NO MESSAGE had the lark that with the sun 
Rose, welcoming another jocund day, 
And poured the trebles of his roundelay 
For sheer joy of the springtime just begun. 
No message had the lilacs, one by one 

Bursting to beauty on the purpling spray. 
Yet was the silent message on its way 
That told our bodeless hearts thy day was done. 

At last, at last, from the long, tireless quest 
Of love and labor, sacrifice and pain, — 
Hope but a mourner in sad Memory's 
train, — 
At last, in that far city of the west, 

Beside the lingering sunset, the release 
Thou wouldst not ask for comes and brings 
thee peace. 

March i, 1905. 



[22] 



THE OLD AND THE NEW 

INDULGE me till the mood be past. 
We'll rest. My brain is in a tangle, — 
The stone walls rise so thick and fast 
About the quiet old quadrangle. 

How quick it ages ! Ten years' sun, 

With shifting forms and faces fleeting, 

And lo, the thing is deftly done, 

And Newness comes with haughty greeting. 

And we — ah, flag we in the race? 

Else why these moments atrabiliar? 
So like a stranger's seems each face 

That once, and here, was most familiar. 

For Doctor Jordan's stooping now. 

And Gilbert's head is almost shiny, 

And what is this about my brow? 

And — can it be the air tastes briny ! 

No, I but dream. We will not let 

Time practice here his old illusion : 

We are all young. And yet — and yet — 
These new walls work a sad confusion. 



23 



I cannot catch some notes that rang 

Clear then ere Youth and Hope grew sager ; 

I miss the songs that Shirley sang, 
The carolings of Carolus Ager; 

I miss the shouts that swept the field 

When Clemans ran or Downing tackled, — 

The flush of victory unconcealed, 

The wild acclaim of lips unshackled. 

And ah for days and hours serene 

Of drowsy lab and droning lectures, 

With only noisy bells between 

To start the tourist's vague conjectures. 

The good old days of lend and spend. 

When courtesy was never prodded, 
When everybody was your friend 

And everybody smiled or nodded; 

When profs held "evenings" on the Row 

To keep their Eastern memories "greeneh," 

Or if good fellowship ran low 
Slipped softly over to Encina 

Where twinkled Gale's and Campbell's lights 

An invitation warm and rosy. 
Where Mrs. Comstock read o' nights 

To chocolate-sipping circles cosy, 

[24l 



Where Anderson dwelt near the stars 

With thoughts and fancies idly vagrant, 

While Woodruff's contraband cigars 

Made all the purlieus faintly fragrant. 

Oh careless, free, Arcadian days, 

Still innocent of pomp or prestige — 

How fast they vanish in the haze 

And leave but memories for vestige ! 

All is gone by now% long and long, — 

The cloister's peace, the campus glory, 

And Kennedy's goals are but a song, 
And Zion's wiles a fading story. 

The grapes have swelled the wine-vault's store, 
Laid is the ghost of tuum meum; 

And Palo Alto trots no more, — 

His bones are set in the Museum, 

No more the Senator rides past 

With hand on cane and gray eye gleaming; 
His dreams are taking substance fast. 

But he sleeps sounder than all dreaming. 

And Swain and Sampson, Griggs, and Laird, 
Like friends that greet you and are gone, 

Have one by one somewhither fared 
And I sit musing on this stone. 

[25] 



Enough ! The golden past was ours ; 

Ours too shall be the future golden: 
New walls, new arches, tiles, and towers, 

We'll make you one yet with the olden. 

January, 1900. 



[26 



PLATO PASSES 

THEN saw I in my dream how all 
The train was filled with these — 
Sharp-eyed smooth-shaven men, who smoked 

And passed their pleasantries ; 
And Plato took his seat as one 
Distinctly ill at ease. 

At length, "Where go these crowds?" he asked 

Of one who scanned the news 
By him, "And why?" The reader paused, 

Then answered in a muse : 
"They play the city's daily game, 

The game of win or lose. 

"You stake your all on a wise guess" — 
"All what?" "All that you prize, 

Gold, 'houses, lands ; and if you win 
You may the world despise." 

"And if you lose?" The stranger smiled: 
"It shows you are not wise." 

Then Plato mused in turn. What prate 

Was this of wisdom? Nay, 
Knew he not Wisdom's face of old? 

Walked he not Wisdom's way, 
Her priest and prophet unto men? 

Alas, was he passe? 

[27] 



Again he to the stranger turned 
As fain some way to seek 

Out of the maze that puzzled him — 
"These are hard words you speak. 

Tell me, may not a folk be found 
Whose language is plain Greek?" 



The train ihad stopped. The stranger caught 

A glimpse of distant walls, 
And pointing, said : "They say that Greek 

Is spoken in yon halls. 
I know not." Straightway Plato rose : 

"Farewell, the daemon calls." 



The palm-lined path allured his steps ; 

A runner past him sped, 
Bare-legg'd, bare-armed : "O goodly sight ! 

'Tis as of old," he said. 
And keen with pleasure grew his face, 

Elastic grew his tread. 



Moreover, by the bright stone walls 

One with a golden key, 
Greek-lettered, welcomed him : "You come 

At a good time," said he ; 
"We meet to-day to speak of things 

You wot of. Come with me." 

[28] 



Then saw I in my dream a band 
Of folk that took their way 

Into a quiet room where men 

Were wont to preach and pray, 

And Plato entered with his friend 
And sat in peace as they. 



And when the band was gathered, one 

In modest garb arose 
Who held the sage's eyes with words 

Born of deep thought's repose, 
And won his heart with maxims such 

As only wisdom knows. 



And still, as followed truth on truth 
That glanced at man, and God 

In man, and love, and virtue's law, 
And paths in duty trod, 

Down to the clear and earnest close, 
Plato would nod and nod. 



Then rose another. "What is he?" 
"A poet." "Oh, profane! 

'Tis a false tribe — let us not hear !" 
But Plato urged in vain. 

The poet promptly drew his scroll, 
And thus began his strain : 

[29] 



A bard stood in the market-place, 

A cry was in his ears, 
The burden of an anguished race 

That ivrestled with its fears. 

'0 golden age,' so rang their cry, 

'Past is it, or to come. 
And never present? Sage, reply! 

Bard, zvherefore art thou dumb? 

'Too zvell zve knozv the age of gold, 
With Mammon for its lord. 

When all things fair are bought and sold. 
And all men hoard and hoard. 

'But still beneath the load zve grope 
Tozvard somezvhat unattained, 

And hungry go the hearts that hope 
For manna never rained.' 

Then spake the bard: 'In vain ye flout 

The age, for lo, the sin 
Is yours who blindly look zvithout 

When you should look within. 

'Peace dzvells beside the spirit's founts. 

Forego your quest, and own 
The poet's simple creed, who counts 

The dreamer zvise alone. 

[30] 



'He looks not after tvealth that flies; 

His acres are not spread 
To sun and rain; his treasure lies 

Not in the earth you tread. 

'But in the hidden land of dreams 
He hoards his priceless store, 

Where all is gold that golden seems 
And glitters evermore. 

'For him, from flashing globe to globe 
Love's deathless music thrills, 

And flotvers of quenchless beauty robe 
Earth's everlasting hills. 

'For him the Argo's zvreathcd proiv 

Cleaves ever-radiant seas; 
For him the golden age is now, 

Here his Hesperides.' 

So rose the poet's fervent song- 
And died. I looked to where 

Plato still sat. I could not see 
His face, but on his hair 

The soft light fell ; and my dream closed 
With Plato nodding there. 



[31 



EPILOGUE 
to above, read at the succeeding banquet. 

Plato looked np and blinked: "By Pan, 
"I've been asleep," said he, 

"And dreaming. Looks like a plain case 
Of too much poetry. 

And what the plague was it about? 
'Twas English all to me. 

"I tried to follow, and I think 

Some rhapsody I heard 
About how dreaming puts men wise ; 

Then everything grew blurred. 
Well, none can blame me if I took 

The fellow at his word!" 



And lurks no moral in this song? 

Forsooth, when things look serious, 
And dons and doctors drone so long 

Their adjurations weary us, 
Just take a nap — you can't go wrong, 

And you won't go delirious. 



[32] 



WINTER IN SANTA CLARA VALLEY. 

LOOK Up through leafless branch and spray ; 
The sky spreads lowering and gray 
From east to west, with scarce a glow 
Where the noonday sun in the south is low. 
The earth lies muffled in the snow. 
And hark, upon the icy air 
A tinkle of bells comes — listen ! — where ? — 
So faint, so faint — 

The dream is gone ! 
A blackbird twitters on the lawn ; 
The sun has failed not since the dawn. 
And roses nodding by the sill, 
And poppies gathering on the hill, 
Cry "Summer, Summer, Summer still!" 

November 28, 1903. 



[33] 



GUI BONO? 

A CRY across the years — from hearts wrung 
dry, 
From lips that yearn toward life and lips that 
die, 
Clear through the whole world's indiscrim- 
inate wail, 
One soul-convulsing, hopeless, querulous cry — 

All lands have voiced it and all ages heard, 
Up from the depths where mind and sense are 
blurred, 
Where darkness gathers over failing eyes 
And hands grope blindly, this reiterant word — 

"Cui bono? Wherefore? Unto what good end ? 

We build us temples and the storm-blasts rend, 

We raise up altars and the lightnings smite 

And our prayers find no gracious god to friend. 

"We take up arms against the ranks of wrong, 
We battle with the cruel and the strong, 

And lo, for guerdon of the fight we get 
Scorn and derision from the heartless throng. 

[34] 



"We sift one truth from out the world of lies 
And carry to our fellow-men the prize, 

And lo, we get for our toil's recompense 
Envy and hatred from the would-be wise." 

So cry they ever from the haunts of care, 
From gloom of disappointment and despair, 

Strong souls that find no burden upon earth 
Save man's ingratitude too great to bear. 

Cui bono? — Socrates before the stand 

Of judges quailed not, and with steady hand 

Took up the cup of hemlock in his cell 
And drank death calmly at the law's command. 

But friends clung round him sorrowing to see 
The noblest of their teachers die as he 

That died through hate of them he fain had 
served, 
A victim to their blind fatuity. 

And well they might ask, weeping, of the worth 
Of all his strong endeavors upon earth 

To win man's liberation from his chains, 
The bonds that bound him from his spirit's birth, 

If this were the conclusion, if men spurned 
The ransom that he offered them and turned 
Their shafts of malice against him whose 
soul 
Only for their soul's exaltation yearned. 

[35] 



And one before him upon Aetna's height 
Stood under the Sicihan stars' calm Hght 
And pondered upon hope's ineptitude, 
Choosing his portion in the eternal night. 

"Joy and the outward world are dead to me" — 
So spake he, musing. Like a whelming sea 

The past rushed down upon him and he saw 
Or deemed he saw his life's futility — 

The days when robed in purple he had trod 
Through Agrigentum's streets like some great 
god 
And men spake, marveling, "Behold the man 
Who hath all Nature subject to his nod!" 

Yet these same men came to him and besought 
To know the magic spells whereby he wrought 

Such marvels, but derided when he told 
Of wisdom and the magic power of thought. 

Wherefore he turned from them in very shame 
Of spirit, and upon the mount of flame 

He gave his life back to the elements 
And left behind a story and a name. 

One later, greater than these great-souled twain, 
Took up the task of thankless love again ; 

And lo, he found his kingship on a cross, 
Thorn-crowned, the sovereign of a realm of pain. 



[36 



Yea, he who claimed God's warranty to try 
To win the world's redemption, God's most high, 

Cried in the anguish of one supreme test 
A very human, agonizing cry. 

In that brief moment of his faltering faith 
He called upon his God with broken breath 
"Why hast thou me forsaken?" and there 
came 
Across his sight the darkling mists of death. 

So died they whom our latter day holds great, 
Not in the majesty of high estate, 

But burdened with the whole world's scoffs 
and scorn 
Until they sunk beneath the crushing weight. 

So died they, seeing not at all as we 
With history's light upon our eyes can see. 
That time would quit them for their earnest 
toil 
And bring forth good if any good there be. 

They sat amid wrecked hopes and baffling fears 
And, looking backward upon barren years, 

Asked of their worth but found them answer 
none 
And died with men's gibes ringing in their ears. 

[37] 



Must it be so forever? Nay, not must; 
We gather wisdom slowly, yet we trust 

This lesson has been learned, if only this, 
That man's deeds are not buried with his dust. 



Cui hotiof — Ask not of the men that were; 
They set green garlands on a victor's hair 

And when the laurel faded this same quest 
Thou mak'st they made between a curse and 
prayer. 

They labored at the loom of time with might, 
But getting the design not all in sight 

What marvel if they scanned the unfinished 
web 
And failed to read the colored woof aright? 

Cui bono? — Ask not of the men that are; 
They have no answer for thee. They unbar 
The gates of fate and stand as thou dost 
now, 
And question of the future from afar. 

But turn unto the records of the past. 
There wilt thou gather how no man forecast 
What good should follow on the least deed 
done. 
And doubt not such things shall be to the last. 

[38] 



Or search thy soul. It may be thou wilt find 
Some faith that sees where other sight is blind ; 

Some strong conviction of a goal* to win 
Albeit its glory is but half divined. 

Cui bono? This — that what thy works have 

won 
There is no power underneath the sun 

To change or hide forever, nor shall age 
Put any slight or shadow thereupon ; 

This — that the universal good is thine, 

That thou must look beyond the narrow line 

Of thy scant life's horizon till thou see 
The point where all lives center and combine; 

And chiefly this — that when the ages fill 
The balance up of counter good and ill, 

Thy deeds, not lessened by the lapse of time, 
Shall turn the scale, perchance, as thou couldst 
will. 

June, 1887. 



[39] 



BEYOND THE PALE 

THIS way, this way, — nay, no scruples! 
What! afraid of the mere sight? 
There are things to see quadruples 

Man's inherent virtue-mite. 
Stuff? Believe me. Why man, bless you! 

Taints the soul each foul laystall? 
Brush against a Cyprian's dress you 
Get some lint-leavings, that's all. 

This way then. . . . The bright lights dazzle ; 

Down the floor the waltzers go; 
Fumes of hot-house flowers, sweet Basil — 

Ah, the death's-head's near, below ! 
What? That "Danube" strain's entrancing? 

Certes — Sense reigns — right you are. 
See that dark-eyed houri dancing? 

She is Sense's queen — devoir! 

Stay you — I was only jesting; 

You are free to fawn or fleer. 
Save your dignity's divesting 

— If it's worth the saving — here. 



[40 



We'll be gone soon. Yet a minute — 

Look there floating down the -bal; 

There's a face — you might have seen it 

But this morning in the mall. 

Lordly then and gracious, brutal 

Now you think it — but you err; 
That's the gas-effect, inutile 

For a man's interpreter. 
Judge it when God's light's attendant, 

Right you may be — no, not must; 
'Chance the soul is yet ascendant — 

Souls are souls still, bodies dust. 

Not your doctrine? Well, no matter, 

We'll not quarrel : men are men, 
Souls and bodies, be the latter 

Soiled or sinless. — Look again. 
In that group there, by the mirror, 

There's a girl might turn your head ; 
Gods, what beauty! Let's go nearer. 

No? You heard then what she said? 

And your judgment — I can guess it: 

All her beauty now is — null. 
But is that fair? Burns a cresset 

The less brightly in a skull? 
And this girl's soul, as you've read it. 

Mars her comeliness? Retract! 
Give the body's beauty credit — 

All things can't be all infract. 

[41] 



No offense ! But beauty's beauty, 

Flesh or spirit, masked or bare — 
Soot can make the silver sooty 

Only on the surface. There, 
We'll go out now since it hurt you 

Just to hear that Phryne curse 
Ah, this cool air's best for virtue ! 

But has that air made you — worse? 

March, 1887. 



[42] 



COUNTERPOISE 

— WEEP ? Oh, sir, you do not know ; 
I have not wept since one glad hour 
Well-nigh a score of years ago — 

The memory of it hath such power. 

The birds were waking to morning-song 

In the glade. "O sweet, but grant me this — 

I shall never make moan my whole life long, 
No matter what follows upon the kiss." 

I said that and she laughed — but turned 

And gave me her lips and her heart and 
her soul 

For one brief hour till daylight burned 

Above the hilltops. — My faith keeps whole. 

March 29, 1887. 



[43 



PALINGENESIS 

' A GLASS of white champagne if you please, 
Jr\ And quickly." — Heavens ! how my brain 

reels ! 
Strange that such ghastly images 

Should haunt one till he well-nigh feels 
That he is going mad. All day 

They've hounded me through the thorough- 
fare 
And driven me here at last to bay — 

"Ah, thank you; yes, just set it there." 



Delicate, faultless, feminine hands, — 

White as lilies I used to cull, — 
Too languid to hold the jeweled bands 

That load them. See ! the wine looks dull 
Beside the sparkling of that ring; 

I wonder what purchased it, love or gold, 
Or another shameless, nameless thing — 

To think of it makes one's blood run cold. 



[44] 



Perhaps the face has something to tell — 

Beautiful, ay, but scarcely blithe- 
One dreams of seeing such faces in hell 

Wreathed round with fire till they writhe 
and writhe. 
Am I dreaming now? No, this face laughs — 

God ! what a tale that laugh has revealed ! 
Curled lips — I could better bear their scoffs ; — 

I know my heart's-blood is nigh congealed. 



But wine will warm it. Why, this cup 

Is strangely like the one I grasped 
When the first wine-draught was lifted up 

To my lips by other hands gem-clasped. 
The gems still sparkle, they say ; and her hands — 

Nay, ask the grave-worm. What if she saw 
My soul from the heaven where her soul stands, 

Would she shrink to think of the hell- 
worm's maw? 



Horrible thoughts are these that rise — 

But the wine, the wine ! See how it seethes ! 
One almost fancies a serpent lies 

Coiled at the bottom, and quietly breathes 
Till the bubbles mount and float to the brim. 

But what are these shapes my eyes define ? — 
Moving forms in the goblet's rim. 

Mirrored clear in the depths of the wine. 



[45] 



Bright lights aglow in a banqueting-hall 

Where revelers reel — but the lights grow 
pale — • 
For a fierier light is alive on the wall — 

Letters of flame — and the cowards quail. 
Belshazzar shall never drain his glass ; 

On Babylon's throne a Mede sits crowned; 
Thus do earth's powers and princes pass. 

Drowned as this scene in my wine is 
drowned. 



But another succeeds it — wreck upon wreck! — 

A gilded galley afloat on a stream, 
And a queen recumbent upon its deck 

With face more fair than a dreamer's dream. 
A Roman matron heard of that face, 

And cursed the beauty (small marvel, too) 
That in Antony's heart usurped her place — 

She died therefrom, if the tale be true. 



But why should I gaze till the play is played? 

It hurts my eyes ; and the tale is old — 
Power and a possible crown betrayed 

By a harlot's kisses and wine and gold. 
Things greater than crowns are sold each day 

For less than a life of ease by the Nile — 
I have heard of a man who bartered away 

His soul for a wanton woman's smile. 



[46 



Such things have been; nay, such things are — 

But why do I muse on these horrors to- 
night ? 
The maid behind the painted bar 

Stares at me as if half in fright. 
Does she suppose I am really mad? 

Not drunken, no ! for my lips are dry, 
And not one drop of aught have they had 

Since late last night when I meant to die. 



Or was it two, three nights ago? 

For all it killed not (cursed boon!) 
The drug was potent — how can I know 

How long I lay in that deadly swoon 
Before the sun fell on my face 

This mom, and I staggered into the street 
To walk all day till in this place 

I've dragged at last my aching feet! 



My head aches, too. No wonder, when 

I've seen reenacted here in my wine 
The drunken orgies of women and men 

Whose sins are centuries older than mine 
And alive to-day, though their lips are dumb. 

I'll gaze no more in the pale champagne 
To find such phantoms. Whence should they 
come ? 

Mirrored, of course, from a feverish brain. 

[47 1 



The poison left it so. I thought 

When I drained the draught the fever would 
sleep. 
So long had I set all shame at naught 

I deemfd life little enough to keep 
And fain would- have taken it. Lo, the end ! 

No end at all. Fate bids me begin 
To weave anew what Time shall but rend, 

To tread in the same old paths of sin. 



But why the same ? Vice-haunted paths ! 

Foul with all things unutterable! 
Choked with Death's scythings, swaths upon 
swaths, 

Down, down, to the utmost, nethermost hell ! 
So far I followed them — yea, to this 

Last, darkest deep, when I gladly hurled 
Me headlong into the blind abyss 

To emerge, if at all, in another world. 



What if it were so? Nay, why not? 

Between me and those perilous ways 
The great gulf yawns — were they once forgot 

Might life not come upon fairer days? 
It may be. Yet could I bear anew 

The Pharisee's sneer, the skeptic's scoff? 
Nay, who shall say what a man can do 

When his soul has shaken its shackles off? 



[48] 



But here comes Hebe to take my glass — 

She'll be surprised to find it undrained. 
How tired she looks ! No doubt the lass 

Finds aught but roses in her lap rained. 
A strange life, her life ! serving wine 

To men whose souls are — leprous-white ; 
For money too. — "Ah, here's the coin. 

No, thank you, I'll not drink to-night." 



[491 



PANTHEISM 

(Improvviso) 

1AM the grave-grass. Rest you here. 
For. so you shed no tear. 
How should I care that am so soft and green, 

Made for your head to lean 
And rest, that no more finds sweet rest 
On softer breast? 

She was your life? And you lost her: 

Your life runs underground, 
From springs you know not, unto deep-water 

You cannot see or sound — 
Your life is ebbed and gone, 
With her withdrawn. 

Have you no hope? None: or you would 

Not come here to the grave 
And cry upon its solitude 

Because it does not save 
What, saved, you could not keep so sure 
As graves endure. 

Foolish ! Is life less life, you ween. 

When that it changes form 
And color, turns from red to green, 

To cold from white and warm? 
Could you but clear your eyes and see 
Right, I were she ! 

1894. 

[50I 



QUESTING 

WHAT wouldst thou, soul, that wilt not let 
me be? 
Must we go forth into the world again 
To follow through the haunts of strange- 
eyed men 
Shapes that elude us, shadowy forms that flee 
Unclasped forever? Why resume this quest? 
Shalt thou win rapture or shall I win rest? 

Lo, I have given thee what a man may give : 
Strong wine of life from grapes of youth 

and love. 
Desire and all the sweet sharp pangs thereof, 

Delights that die and agonies that live. 

Must struggle on until thou win at last 

Delight that lives when agony is past? 

Yet ponder, soul. When thou shalt be unbound,. 
When thou shalt fling aside this earthly me 
And out upon eternity's tide swim free 

With song about thee and light of heaven around,. 

Wilt cry not then as thou hast ever cried, 

Stung with the old desires. Unsatisfied! 

December, 1891. 

[51] 



BACCHANALIA 

(a la Swinburne) 

COME with the cymbals, come with the pean, 
Nymph and Bacchanal, maiden and boy, 
Drink for to-night of the draught Lethean, 

Fill your souls with the fullness of joy. 
Away with the cares that corrode the heart, 
Leave off all things wheresoever thou art, 
Phocian and Thracian and far Cytherean, 

The hopes that hunger, the griefs that cloy. 

Come with bodies unbent for pleasure. 

Minds unburdened with weight of wrong, 

Feet alive to the triplicate measure, 
Hearts attuned to a Siren's song. 

Come and partake of the foaming wine 

That is crushed from the grapes of the crowning 
vine. 

The grapes that have yielded their whole heart's 
treasure 
To make men happy and high gods strong. 

The floor is swept for the dancer's tread, 
Come, ye nimble and fleet of feet ; 

The fruits are gathered, the feast is spread, 
Come ye, bring ye desire and eat ; 

The rich red wine is foaming up 

To the beaker's brim, in the brimming cup. 

Feast till your souls be satiated 

With all things goodly and all things sweet. 

[52] 



See, they come from the hills and valleys, 

The heights of heaven, the hollows of 
earth, — 
The Faun from the mountain, the Nymph from 
her palace 
Under the fountain, the river's birth. 
And the great sea pours from his couches of sand 
Naiads and Nereids out on the land, 
And lo, as aloft I lift my chalice, 

They throng around me in madness of 
mirth. 

"Evoi, Evoi ! — 
Shouting the song, 

Evoi, Evoi ! — 
Swelling the throng, 

Evoi, Evoi ! — 
Dancing along." 

Around, around, with a joyous bound, 

See my Bacchanals go. 
Around, around, like a fleet-foot hound. 

No flitting form moves slow. 
Around, around, to the cymbals' sound, 
And the music's liquid flow. 
And the white feet twinkle, the bright arms 

gleam. 
The shining locks from their shoulders stream 
As the dancers move through the maze like a 
dream 
Beneath the cressets' glow. 

[53] 



The wan lips redden, the dull eyes brighten, 

The nostrils quiver with quickening breathy 
The feet of the revelers leap and lighten 

With the fire of the draught that lighteneth. 
Aloft, aloft, with the drink divine, 
Laugh and quafif the mercurial wine 
Till the faint blood quickens, the pulses brighten, 
With love of living, defiance of death. 

The dull eyes brighten, the wan lips redden, 
The color mounts, where the pallor is fled, 

Flushed hearts throb harder for life that were 
leaden 
And fleet feet follow the Bacchanal's tread. 

On, my Maenad and Bassarid, on ! 

Nymph and Naiad and Satyr and Faun, 

On with the dance and the mirth till ye deaden 
Each pulse of pain in your veins that is fed. 



The wind upheaps and the wild rain levels 

The fallen leaves on the forest-floor ; 
The Thracian storm-blast rends and dishevels 

Mountain and meadow and vale and shore. 
But the wine-god sits alone by the streams 
And his withering ivy-crown droops as he dreams 
Of the midnight orgies and mad sweet revels 
That have been once but shall be no more. 

1885. 

[54 1 



LOSS OR GAIN 

I HAVE lost her just on the verge of possession : 
A word misspoken — the only, first — 
And we are parted beyond regression. 
Is it best or worst? 

Black is her hair, black, beautiful, splendid. 
Black are her eyes, too, yea, 'tis confessed. 

Just for a man's life's ruin intended ; 
And her soul's — like the rest. 

So then we are parted, and I am — sorry? 

Nay, glad, I think, when I think at all. 
What should I do, who have hoped for the starry 

Heaven, to fall? 

And what at best would have been the gain of it ? 

A brief term's sweetness, and then — ah 
then !— 
A whole life's bitterness — there's the pain of it — 

Till Death's "Amen!" 

By which gain's loss I am truly winner. 

I shall go my way — let her go hers. 
But who is the saint and who the sinner? 

As your creed prefers. 

[55] 



She sins in deed which I have never 

Who have sinned in thought which she does 
not. 

So draw the line, dissect, dissever, — 
I take my lot. 

March 6, 1886. 



[56] 



MUTABILITY 

TURN back with me : A space of frost, 
Three months of snow, then wind and rain, 
Blossoms and roses, ripening grain, 
Brown leaves upon the crisp air tossed, — 
The year has run its round again ! 

Your patience. Let me talk. Sit here, 
LTpon this grass, beneath this tree, 
Let my head lie against your knee 

As once of old, as then last year. 

When neither guessed what things should 
be. 

How we were happy ! Blue sky-gleams, 
Paling to rose, flushing to red. 
While blood of sunset dyed the dead 

Day slain ere we roused from our dreams 
To find the night risen lord instead. 

That was — one year ago: so long! 

So much that has been is no more. 

We sit upon this river's shore 
And listen vainly for the song 

That voiced our hopes that night of yore. 

[57] 



"Some day, some day," — I half recall 

The singers' words — "some happy day. 
Ere love grows old and life grows gray, 

Ere sunlight wanes and shadows fall, 

Our joy shall blossom, Sweet, some day. 

"Some day, O Sweet, some happy day" — 
Ah for the burden of that song! 
"While hearts are light and hope is strong, 

Our love shall find the perfect way, 

Some day, O Sweet, ere long, ere long." 

What of the singers now? Who knows? 
They glided past us in the gloom 
And vanished. What light shall illume 

Their path thereafter or disclose 

If their joy ever came to bloom? 

I talk of others, not of us ! 

It had not been so once, last year. 

What boots it now? You do not hear. 
And though your hand lies prisoned thus 

In mine, there is no tremor here, 

So all things change. This very grass 

Is like but is not yet the old ; 

The woodland wears not last year's gold, 
And on the river's breast, alas ! 

Strange voices float, new hopes unfold. 



58 



And what of us? Oh joy's ecHpse! 

The starHght trembles but not you ; 

The grass-blades quiver with the dew 
That kisses them, but on your lips 

No kiss of mine may thrill anew. 

What care? And yet, for all I know 

That hours must fade and passion range, 
New loves grow old and cold and strange. 

I would some things kept always so, 

I would that not all things did change ! 

September, 1887. 



[59I 



BALLADE OF LIGHT LOVES 

BETWEEN the rains and the roses we met. — 
"Oh lend me your heart, fair maid, I pray, 
And I'll lend you mine till the May be set, 

For a springtime space till summer gain- 
- say." 

But the maiden laughed: "Not I; nay, nay! 
There's an old song of love and regret — 

This lending of hearts is perilous play, 
One will remember though one forget." 

"And that is your fear, my dear fillette? 

Nay, make we merry while youth holds 
sway. 
Nor let old songs and sayings fret" — 

Thus lightly I laughed her fears away. 

Oh dream of love ! Oh joy to stray 
Down paths with never a thorn beset! 

Oh happy hearts ! — But alackaday, 
One will remember though one forget. 

Ay, time hath wings no love can let, 

And the spring and the maiden went their 
way; 

r6ol 



But the maiden paid not back the debt 

Of my heart she borrowed in ea^-ly May. 
A year and a year is it now, and gray 

The skies are grown and the woodlands wet — 
Alas that I should have lived to say 

One will remember though one forget. 

Comrades, take heed in your pastimes gay: 
Light loves may come at your call, and yet 

Beware, beware! in an after day 
One will remember though one forget. 



1887. 



f6il 



RONDEAU 

A RUINED rose — I hold it so 
Up by its broken stem, and lo! 
In fibrous heart and shredded sheath 
The record of my lady's teeth 
Who frayed it thus an hour ago. 

I asked too much it may be, though 
She needed not such meed bestow, 
Nor to my wounded heart bequeath 
A ruined rose. 

But Time will even all, I know ; 

And when a few more years shall show 
Fair maidens gleaned from hall and heath 
To round up Beauty's changeful wreath 

My lady proud will lie below, 
A ruined rose. 

December, 1885. 



[62] 



AUBADE 

MY SONG is my heart's message. Oh for art 
To wing it with the wind of imminent 
morn 
And waft it to the chambers of thy heart, 
Lest it die futile ere the day be born. 
What should song do unheeded? disavow 
Its loving ministry that no vexed ear 
May grudge it guerdon? Aye; but thou, wilt 
thou 
Let love plead now arrear 
Nor wake nor hear? 

The moon that set an hour ago, yet leaves 

A trail of waning splendor in the west ; 
The earth stirs softly, and the broad lake beams 

With mirrored stars set gemlike on its 
breast ; 
The night-wind whispers to the long low grass 

Of fragrant islands in some southern sea ; 
The heron's hoarse cry comes from the morass ; 

Shall these things pass and we 
Not hear or see? 



[63] 



O love, fling wide the lattice ere the stars 

Shall follow in the moon's wake, set or die. 
Already up the east faint aureate bars 

Glow harbingers of dayspring in the sky. 
Sweet the acacia sheds its scent for us. 

And sweet the hedge-flowers blossom down 
the row. 
And the sweet jasmine twines half amorous — 

Sweet are these thus although 
None see or know. 



Yet let not sleep keep these delights from thee; 

Youth's glory like the night's will soon be 
spent 
When all delights as one to us shall be 

And one end of them all — evanishment. 
Awake, arise, and shame the tardy sun ; 

Thy queenship over all the flowers declare 
Lest in the pride of their own beauty none, 

While slumbers one more fair, 
May know or care. 



But soft, my song, she comes ! O passionate 
heart. 
Hush thy loud beatings lest she hear and 
flee 
And the dawn coming see our light depart 
So sweetly more than dawn or day to me. 



[64] 



Nay, love, shall scorn usurp thus song's demesne, 

Or ever love love's singing weary of? 
For how should I let thee, crowned my heart's 
queen, 
Graciously lean above 
Nor care nor love? 

April, i8gi. 



651 



"THE DEWS LIE THICK" 

THE dews lie thick in the meadow-grasses, 
And heavy with perfume and faint with love 
The cowslip kissing the hare-bell's stem 
Shivers and shrinks from the wind as it passes 
Sweet as the breath of a maiden above, 
Soft as the touch of her garment's hem. 

The rivulet sings through rustling sedges 
Tall rushes and leaves of lilies outspread 
But I, close down to the mother's breast, 
I can well see past the ragged edges 
Of tangled grasses and weeds overhead 
The moon's sharp sickle grow pale in the 
west. 

I hear, close couched to the warm earth's bosom. 
The song of the stream and the sigh of the 
wind 
But my heart is as dry as the dust of the 
plain 
Shriveled and shrunk as a blighted blossom, 
And my voice grown shrill with age and 
thinned 
Pipes ever in answer a plaintive strain. 

[661 



O meadow-grasses, O fair marsh flowers 
O runnels of water and waifs of wind 
I pray you listen, the night is long. 
Though the sun has sunk on my singing hours 
My breast is oppressed as a heart that hath 
sinned, 
My soul can only find solace in song. 



[67 



"SIT CLOSER, SWEET" 

SIT closer, sweet, 'tis growing dark; 
I scarce can see your face 
And the great trees look gaunt and stark 

About this lonely place. 
Sit closer till I see your eyes' 

Blue heaven and glad cheek's glow 
Once more before the daylight dies — 
Sit closer, closer — so. 

I know the color is not gone 

From them although the night 
Has stooped in jealousy and drawn 

Her veil across my sight. 
I know it well for still I feel 

Your heart beat fast as when 
An hour ago you felt me kneel 

Beside you in this glen. 

We knelt beside the spring to quaff 

Quite other draughts, and yet 
We saw our mirrored faces laugh 

And lean until they met. 
What if my arm forgot its place 

And stole around your waist? 
What if my hand with graceless grace 

Upon your heart was placed? 

[68] 



I felt it beating wildly then, 

I feel it beating now — 
Bow down your golden head again, 

Lift up your lovely brow. 
The spring no longer mirrors us 

Its face has grown quite blind 
But do not think 'twould shame it thus 

To see us twain entwined. 



[69 



EERIE TIME 

WHEN the clock strikes ten and the lights 
go out 
And the folks come up to bed, 
And Uncle John quits shuffling about 

In the attic overhead ; 
And the dogs begin to bark at the posts, 
And the night-owls call to the elves, 
Then back in the walls I know the ghosts 
Are ready to stir themselves. 

They peep to see if the coast is clear, 

And then step cautiously out, 
And nod and whisper so I can't hear. 

But I know what they're about. 
They are going to play their games again 

Of Catch-me-if-you-Can, 
And Tag-across-the-Counterpane, 

And Hide-and-Find-your-Man. 

They never stop to open doors 

For fear a hinge might creak. 
But glide right through the walls and floors — 

What funny Hide-and-Seek! 
And they never laugh or speak out loud, 

But when the hall-stairs crack 
I know some ghost has tripped on his shroud 

And fallen and hurt his back. 

[70] 



Then I snuggle closer down in bed 

So I can't hear the wail 
Of the little squeak-mouse overhead 

When a ghost steps on his tail ; 
While out of dreamland the fairy hosts 

Come trooping, till papa calls 
"Up Rob!" and I jump, and behold, the ghosts 

Are all gone back in the walls. 

May, 1903. 



[71] 



"THE BUILDERS BUILDED" 

THE builders builded. 
"Master of life and death, 
Who boldest in thy keeping man's frail breath, 
Who hast his competence to give and take, 
His hunger to appease, his thirst to slake, 
His towers of promise to uphold or raze, 
Grant me, I pray thee, some meet measure of days 
While I upbuild me here before the sun 
A goodly lordly palace that shall be 
Most fair for all men's eyes and lips to see 
And praise me building." So one saith, and one, 
With head bowed down upon his suppliant knee, 
"Master, thy will be done." 

"Lo, Master, here are gold and glass and sand 

Laid ready to my hand. 

And in my heart a high unfaltering trust! 

Mark while I build from out this terrene dust 

A structure that shall witness and withstand 

Time's ravages and rust 

And be to thee a glory and a grace 

To thy poor slave that comes before thy face 

Preferring prayer," another saith; and one. 

With head still bowed in suppliant wise upon 

His knee, made orison : 

[72] 



"Good Master, if it be that so thou art willed, 
Grant me some space ere my life's space be filled, 
Some little time ere my time's sands be run 
And my work-season done, 
To make this worthy of thee that I build." 



The days fell fast of sun and wind and rain 
That brought brief change upon the patient plain, 
Swift supersession of the dawn and light 
And noon and dusk and night. 
And sunrise upon sunrise, moon on moon. 
Saw through clear air or broke through cloud 

and mist 
Where their first rays and the last mist-strays 

kissed, 
To find, all hours and seasons, late or soon, 
Sundawn or plenilune, 

With plumb and trowel in either tireless hand 
The builders building on the level land. 

No rains of winter and no winds of spring, 
No heat or blight that summer and autumn 

bring, 
No dearth of gladness and no gloom's excess, 
Could quench the ardor in their hearts that 

burned 
Or sear their spirit's vigor ; nor discerned 
They of unwavering resolution less 
Nor more of weariness 

[731 



In the strong souls that planned, the hands that 

wrought, 
Than to a man's impermanent lot may fall, 
Being mortal and not made for godlike thought. 
Being death-foredoomed and not for life at all. 

So without pause for rest or rest for pain 
Right manfully they labored till there rose 
Heavenward upon the fair broad-breasted plain 
Three marvels such as man's poor magic shows. 
Three dazzling diverse structures. Sheer and tall 
With square-cut base and vertical smooth wall 
That swerved not from the plumb-line half a 

hair 
One shot into the thin blue upper air 
Tower-like, and the eye following found no flaw 
In its most fair proportions, only saw 
A straight bright shaft of white pure polished 

stone 
That lifts its lofty head 
Above the sand-drift of its basal bed 
Most like some pillar of heaven that stood and 

shone 
A stately splendid thing 
Made for earth's glory and man's marveling. 

More humble as with less aspiring crown. 
Yet far surpassing it in matchless grace 
The second held its place 
Upon the level of the low sand-down. 
Glitter of gems and ivory and gold. 
And crystals manifold 

[74] 



That turned the superstructure into flame, 

Marked it for admiration from afar* 

Like some transplendent scintillating star 

Set upon earth to shine against the sun. 

Story on story widening upward rose, 

Each richer and more radiant than the last, 

Nor might the keenest wondering search disclose 

More for support to the erection vast 

Than a mere pivot-point which scarcely seemed 

To touch the earth beneath it, till one deemed, 

So delicately poised it stood amid 

The light and splendor round about it cast, 

He gazed upon some fair 

Inverted and enchanted pyramid 

Swung by an unseen potent spirit there 

To float forever in the ambient air. 

And what of him that had so humbly prayed? 
His spirit had not faltered, nor had stayed 
The hands that strove to work the spirit's will. 
And yet they wrought, albeit they wrought with 

skill, 
No marvel such as those that stood beside 
Magnificent in pride, 
No glittering show of meretricious art, 
But fashioned in some simple, chaste design, 
Of perfect symmetry in every part. 
Of classic grace in every curve and line 
A temple and a shrine 
In outward symbol of the builder's heart. 
Gleam of white marble shadowless and pure, 
From massive plinth to broad entablature. 

[75] 



AT SEA 

(January 4, 1913) 

PART merges into whole 
Here where abideth free 
The universal soul 

And time has space to be. 



GIBRALTAR 

Exult! the grey Atlantic 
Is left behind at last. 
Rejoice! the shores romantic 
Loom dimly thro' the vast. 

And is that dark Gibraltar? 

Oh brighter, closer grow ! 
Lo, there was Ammon's altar! 

Lo, here is Gades ! Lo, 

These are the very portals 
Of that old sea of doom 

Where mortals and immortals 
Have labored at the loom 

[76] 



Of life for ages, weaving 
What ages still shall rend, - 

Till love shall cease achieving 
And hope and fear have end. 

O shores of man's endeavor, 
O shrines of gods o'erthrown, 

O sea whereon forever 

The winds of fate are blown, 

Be still within your giving 
Some gift to us who cry, 

To make us richer living. 
Nor leave us loth to die. 

Exult! the grey Atlantic 

Fades like a troubled dream — 

While shapes of shores romantic 
On the horizon gleam. 

See, there is dark Gibraltar! 

Oh brighter, brighter grow. 
And here was Ammon's altar ! 

Ceuta ! Gades ! Lo. 

January ii, 1913. 



[77] 



CAPRI 

HERE rest and dream. The waters rest, 
The boats scarce rocking on their breast. 
The cloud rests on the purple crag; 
And the long hours of noonday lag, 
As if the sun himself would rest 
Above this Island of the Blest. 

Home of the fabled Sirens. Home 
Beloved of the lords of Rome, 
When cares of empire heavy prest 
Upon the hearts that longed for rest 
As sweet to Caesars as to us, — 
Augustus and Tiberius. 

Not ours their burdens. Yet have we 
Sought too this island in the sea, 
Resigning life's more ample powers 
To dream awhile among its flowers, 
And watch the sun slope to the west, 
Brief sovereigns of a realm of rest. 

March 21, 1913. 



[78I 



SORRENTO 

(Hotel Lorelei) 
Improvisation 

ON THE Lorelei's terrace lounging, 
While the warm sirocco blows, 
Oh the lazy life we're leading 

In the name of earned repose! 

Darkly blue Vesuvius rises 

Eastward o'er the olives gray; 

Naples shimmers on the shore-line 
Far across the wind-swept bay. 

Out to westward Ischia slumbers ; 

Round the headland Capri lies, 
Jewel of the fairest circlet 

Underneath Italian skies. 

So the spirit-soothing visions 

Round about us group and close, 

As we loiter in Sorrento 

And the warm sirocco blows. 

March 26, 1913. 



[79] 



ALBERGO SANTA CATERINA 

Amalfi 

A DOOR in a gray, blank, windowless wall 
That winds along the street. 
Pass through and feel life's burdens fall, 

Disbanded, at your feet: 
Saint Catherine's peace is over all 
Within this still retreat. 

Your back is turned upon the throng; 

Before you the sky and the sea. 
And a terraced garden where all day long 

The orange-flower woos the bee, 
And the wild canary stills his song 

In the shade of the carob-tree. 

The sea calls low, or the sea calls loud ; 

The terraces spread to the sun ; 
Or the rain-drops fall from the lowering cloud 

Till the iris-cups o'errun. 
And winds may pipe, or winds may cease — 

It matters not what befalls. 
When over the spirit hath stolen the peace 

That dwells in Saint Catherine's walls. 

April 2, 1913. 

[80] 



CANTO DELL'AMORE 

(Carducci) 

I KNOW not how, but all my thoughts to-day 
Come winged in splendor of the sapphire's 
hues, 
Thro' all my veins I feel the poignant play 
Of sighs that earth and the glad heaven dif- 
fuse. 
Every new sight doth, like a wave restored 

Of ancient feeling, my warmed bosom move,. 
And my tongue cries out of its own accord 
Unto the earth and heaven, O Love, O Love. 



1907. 



[81] 



AVE MARIA 

(Carducci) 

AVE Mary! When on the air of evening 
Steals the low-voiced sweet salutation, 
mortals 
Meekly bare the brow and bow down the fore- 
head, 

Dante and Harold. 

Slowly floats the melody, as of soft flutes, 
Passing by unseen between earth and heaven, — 
Spirits peradventure that were, that are now, 
Spirits that shall be? 

Gently o'er life's weariness draws oblivion's 
Veil ; a pensive sighing, a tranquil longing, 
Ev'n an impulse sweet unto tears, to weeping. 
Steals on the spirit. 

Husht the brute creation and man and all things ; 
Sunset's rose fades out in the darkning azure; 
Still the lofty undulant summits murmur, 
Ave Maria! 
1907. 



[82] 



PETRARCA: IN MORTE 

LII. 

I FEEL mine ancient air ; I see draw nigh 
The blessed hills where that fair light arose 
That kept mine eyes, while Heaven such 
bounty chose, 
Ardent and glad, now sad and never dry. 
Oh perishable hopes ! Dreams born to die ! 
Withered the grass, turbid the water flows, 
And empty and cold the nest of her repose 
Wherein I lived that longed in death to lie. 

Hoping at last to win from her soft plaining 

And the fair eyes that made my bosom burn 
Some respite from this sorrow's ceaseless pain- 
ing. 
I have served a lord of cruelty and scorn — 
Who burned of old, before my bright fire's 
waning, 
And now above its scattered ashes mourn. 



[83] 



LIII. 

Is this in truth my splendid phoenix' nest 
Where first her plumes of gold and purple 

gleamed, 
Whose wings meet shelter for my poor heart 
seemed, 
For whom my words and sighs are still ex- 
pressed? 
O primal root of my so sweet unrest. 
Where is the beauteous face whence the light 

streamed 
That kept me alive and joyful while it beamed? 
Sole upon earth, in heaven now art thou blest. 

And thou hast left me here, grief's eremite, 
Returning ever to the spot by thee 

Made consecrate and honored in my sight. 
Ah dark with gathering night the hills I see 

Whence thy soul took to heaven its final flight. 
And where thine eyes made day of night for 
me. 

1896. 



[84] 



LIV. 

Now hast thou shown thine utmost power at 
once, 
O cruel Death, now hast thou in an hour 
Made poor Love's realm, and Beauty's light 
and flower 
Hast stripped and shut within the narrow sconce ; 
Now hast thou life despoiled of all it owns 
Of ornament and honor's sovereign dower. 
But fame and worth defer not to Death's 
power : 
These are not thine — keep thou the naked bones. 

The rest be heaven's, that by its shining clear, 
As by some brighter sun, is glorified. 
The rest on earth in good men's thoughts abide. 
Be thy heart conquered in its victory's pride 
By pity of me, new angel in that sphere, 
As mine was conquered by thy beauty here. 

1896. 



[85] 



LXXXIX. 

Stray little bird that on thy way goest singing 
Or haply wailest for the hour grown late, 
Beholding night and winter at the gate 

And the bright season swiftly backward winging ; 

Knewest thou, as well thou knowest the deep 
woes stinging 
Thine own heart, so my not unlike estate, 
Thou'ldst fly unto this breast disconsolate 

And share with mine thy cries of sorrow's 
wringing. 

I know not if like griefs by us be borne. 
Since she thou mournest still may living be, 

While envious Death and Heaven leave me for- 
lorn : 
But the sad hour and surging memory 

Of all the sweet and bitter years outworn, 
Bid my heart cry in pity unto thee. 

1896. 



[86] 



DANAE'S LAMENT* 
(Simonides) 

AND while she lay within the carven chest, 
Rocked by the soughing winds and troub- 
led waves, 
Fear crept into her not untearstained 
cheeks. 
And clasping Perseus closelier round she 
spake : — 

'O child, what woes are mine ! Yet thou sleep'st 

sound. 
In infant heedlessness thou slumberest 

Within the bronze-nailed chest, 
While lampless night and darkness swathe thee 

round. 
Nor though the washing brine bedew thy hair, 

Takest thou care, 
Nor though the wind lift up its voice aloud, — 
Face to my face, wrapped in thy purple shroud. 
Not fearful unto thee the name of Fear ! 
Else wouldst thou to my words lend readier ear. 

'Yet sleep, my babe, I bid thee sleep, my child. 
And sleep, ye waters wild ; 
Sleep, mine insatiate woe ! 
And grant, O father Zeus, some respite come 
Out of thy mercy. Nay, too bold I know 
This boon I ask, past justice to bestow : 
I pray thee, pardon me, my lips are dumb." 



*From a volume of translations from Pindar and 
other classic poets now being collected. 

[87] 



FROM THE JAPANESE. 
I 

HOKKU 
A voice 

Hito-Koe-wa 

(was it) moon (that) called 

Tsuki-ga nai-ta-ka 

the cuckoo 

Hototogisu 

I lookt to where the cuckoo sang, — 

moon, was yours the voice that rang? 

II 

Waka 

The cuckoo 
Hototogisu 

singing in the direction 

Naki-tsuru kata-wo 

(I) looked 

Naga-mu-re-ba 

only of the dawn 

Tada ari-ake-no 

the moon being there 

Tsuki-zo nokoreru. 

Forth I went at the cuckoo's cry. 

1 saw the bright moon in the sky, 
But nowhere saw the singing bird. 

O moon, was yours the voice I heard? 

[88] 



Ill 
Old Love Song 

From thee parted (I) 

Kimito wakare te 

pine-grove as I passed 

Matsu-bara yuke ba, 

pine tree from dewdrops whether 

Matsu no tsuyu yara 

tears whether 

Namida yara. 

When I roam the wood at evening 
And the pine-trees drip with dew, 

Oh the dewdrops from the pine-trees! 
Oh the tear-drops shed for you! 



[89] 



DEC 22 13:3 



